


The Evidence Suggests

by wolfraven80



Category: Enola Holmes (2020)
Genre: Action, F/M, Fluff, Mystery, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:08:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28098960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfraven80/pseuds/wolfraven80
Summary: When Enola takes on an unusual case as a favour for Tewkesbury, she find herself reviewing the evidence, not just for the case but for the people she cares about most.
Relationships: Enola Holmes/Viscount "Tewky" Tewksbury
Comments: 18
Kudos: 68
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [celli](https://archiveofourown.org/users/celli/gifts).



> celli, I hope you have a lovely Yuletide and that this story will be a pleasant surprise. Its length certainly came as a surprise to me once I started writing it! And while I'm sorry to report there are no aliens, there is a little astronomy. ;) I hope you enjoy it!

_In our reasonings concerning matter of fact, there are all imaginable degrees of assurance, from the highest certainty to the lowest species of moral evidence. A wise man, therefore, proportions his belief to the evidence._ – **David Hume, _An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding_**

* * *

As the carriage trundles through the hubbub of central London, it must be admitted that my thoughts remain fixed not on the one who had sent the carriage, but, rather, on the author of the letter I received shortly before setting out.

_Dear Enola,_

_I have been called to Devon for a case and expect to be away from London for a week at least. If you have any need of me, please leave a message with Mrs. Hudson. I've instructed her to dispatch a telegram should anything urgent occur, though I have no doubt of your being able to handle any eventuality._

_Regards,_

_Sherlock_

The script is, as always, flowing and precise, the curving letters formed with economy rather than the flourishes I've come to expect in Tewkesbury's letters. Tewkesbury's script is loose and hasty, full of loops and swirls and every bit as expressive as the meaning it conveys. His feelings are easily discernable, nor would he have it any other way. But Sherlock? In the three years and a half since I've settled in London he's not interfered with my work, nor tried to capture me; we have arrived at a truce and I feel certain that I've secured his respect, though at times I wonder if that is the limit of his regard.

Progress slows to a crawl once the driver turns onto Piccadilly, but eventually the carriage comes to a halt before the Black Leaf Teahouse. And who is standing by the door but Viscount Tewksbury Marquess of Basilwether, peering down at a gold pocket watch he inherited from his father. A smile blooms across his face the moment I step out of the carriage. His feelings are never in doubt—he wears them like a brightly coloured overcoat.

"Enola, I've missed you," he says, beaming.

I take a moment to smooth out my skirts—and avoid his eyes. "You always say that."

"And it's always true." He squeezes the watch in his hand for a moment before putting it back in his jacket pocket. He told me once that he still thinks of his father each time he takes it out to check the hour, that it's the keepsake he most treasures.

I take his arm when he offers it. "The fact that you're standing out here instead of waiting for me at our table suggests you've got something to tell me."

"I do." He bites his lip for a second before leading me into the tea house. "I have a friend who'll be joining us today. He's lost something and I told him I knew someone who could help."

I pause and he stops at my side. "You know my specialty is missing people, not searching for lost baubles for Dukes and Countesses and Marquesses."

"He's a good sort, Enola. Really. Please just promise me you'll hear him out first."

I want to tell him not to look at me like that, eyes bright and smiling, as if I were the answer to all of his questions. So much confidence, so much faith—in me. Sometimes it's too much. Because of all the people I've come to know since I left Ferndell, he is the only one I can't bear to disappoint.

I give him my most dubious look, but assent anyway. If he's a friend of Tewkesbury's then he can't be utterly awful and, in any case, there will be tea and scones at least.

The Black Leaf Teahouse serves a more elite clientele than Edith's establishment. Young ladies in fine silk skirts and fashionable plumed hats, piled with lace and artificial flowers, congregate around tables like flocks of colourful songbirds. The hats are more ornate than the gilded chandeliers dangling above us. Gentleman in tailored (and eminently more practical) suits sit among the flower-bedecked ladies. Chatter and laughter waft through the air and not a single seditious word, like those you might overhear at Edith's.

Tewkesbury leads me to a table occupied by a fellow who looks only a few years older than him. His dark hair is windblown and his thin moustache in need of trimming. He's remarkably pale even for a Lord, as if he were averse to sunlight. There are ink stains on his fingers and a blotch on his right sleeve. Also, he appears to be asleep. His head is drooping, chin touching his chest, eyes closed.

"Your friend seems very excited to meet us."

With a shake of his head, Tewksbury clears his throat loudly. Once. Twice. And then turns to me to offer an a apologetic smile before leaning down to shake the fellow's shoulder. "Freddie!" he hisses.

His friend springs to attention, his face flushing crimson as he sees me. There are dark bags under his blue eyes.

"Enola," Tewkesbury says, "this is my friend Lord Frederick Lennox. And this is Miss Enola Holmes."

Lennox offers a little bow. His ears are scarlet. "Miss Holmes, what a pleasure to meet you!"

"Likewise."

The three of us make polite conversation for a while. Once I'm satisfied that everyone's had a chance to sip their tea and slather their scones with cream and jam I finally ask the question. "I'm sure Tewkesbury has mentioned that I work as a detective. He said that you were in need of assistance finding a lost item?"

Lennox's blue eyes fix on me and he looks more alert than he has since we arrived. "Not an item precisely but… well some papers that are of some importance to me."

I raise an eyebrow. "Can you be more specific?"

He glances at Tewksbury as if looking for reassurance.

"Go on, " Tewksbury says. His grin is broad and happy as he glances at me. "I promise you she's not nearly as terrifying as I've made her out to be."

I huff. "I'm only terrifying to those who deserve it."

Lennox's eyes dart between us as if performing a mental calculation to ascertain if we're joking. "I'm certain I'm not one of those. I… well you see, I'm afraid I'm inclined to indulge in a pastime that my father doesn't approve of."

"That's why he looks such a fright," Tewksbury says. "He stays up half the night—even when he has an engagement the next morning."

There are a number of common pastimes for young lords that a father might not approve of—mostly involving drink, gambling, or women—but I cannot imagine Tewksbury calling him a good sort if that is the nature of his problem. But just to be safe I opt to remain silent until Lennox offers an explanation.

"My father would have me train as a barrister," Lennox says, his shoulders sagging. "But my true passion is… astronomy."

"Astronomy?" I say, relieved. "You have access to a telescope then?"

His eyes light up and he nods vigorously. "Yes at my uncle's house in Ealing. It's far enough outside of London to avoid the fog and we get some good clear nights in the summer especially."

"And your notes…"

He slumps again, like a deflated hot air balloon upon its return to earth. "Yes, my notes. Last week we had some excellent clear weather and I was able to make observations of Mars during the opposition."

"This is where he loses me," Tewksbury chimes in.

Lennox shakes his head. "If you'd look up from your mushrooms and ferns once in a while you'd realize the greatest wonders are in the heavens."

"I am very fond of mushrooms, thank you. They've saved me from starvation on at least one occasion," Tewksbury says and pops the remains of a scone into his mouth.

"You were saying, Lord Lennox?" I prompt.

"Mars. Mars, yes. The opposition—that’s when Mars is closest to the earth, every 26 months. I was in the back garden where my uncle's telescope is housed. My uncle was an accomplished amateur astronomer so you must understand the telescope is quite a large one. It's set up in a converted shed in the back garden. I made my observations of Mars last Thursday. I went to bed very late and placed my notes in my bedroom desk. When I woke around noon, all was well, but when I returned to my room after dinner the windows were flung open and the notes were no longer in my desk. I tried to speak to the local police but as nothing of importance—their exact words—was stolen they suggested it was simply a trick by local children and that my papers would turn up again in a day or so."

"And they did not," I say.

He slumps back into his chair. "No."

"Who else was at your uncle's house when the papers went missing?"

"Just the groundskeepers, the cook, my younger sister, and her governess but I can't imagine what any of them would want with my notes."

I spend a long moment in silent reflection. My preference is to assist people who are in great need, who are—or are at risk of—suffering great ills. Though at least it's not a bauble that's been lost as I'd first feared. His astronomical observations may have scientific importance—after all many an amateur has discovered a new comet or other irregular phenomenon. And if I harboured any further doubts, when I glanced at Tewkesbury and saw him looking at me with raised eyebrows and a hopeful smile, what else could I do but set them aside?

"Very well, Lord Lennox, I'll take the case."

"You will! Wonderful!" he says shooting up to his feet and reaching over the table to shake my hand with far more exuberance than necessary.

"I'll need to speak to everyone who was on the grounds that day."

"I can send a carriage to bring you to Ealing." He glances at Tewkesbury. "Why don't you come too? We can make a day of it, do some fishing. Is tomorrow acceptable? I'm having dinner with my father tonight and need to stay in town."

I agree and we set the terms of the arrangement. With the tea consumed and the terms set, Lennox rises to go. "Thank you once again, Miss Holmes. I don't know when we'll get another such clear night so I would be truly grieved to have lost my sketches of the canals."

"The canals?" I repeat, at a loss.

"The Martian canals!" He it says it loudly enough to draw the attention of several young ladies at the next table but Lennox barrels on, oblivious. "Schiaparelli first spotted them over a decade ago, but no one's yet confirmed his findings. I'm certain they must have been constructed to convey water from the polar caps to more arid southern regions of the planet. I was hoping to submit my observations to the Royal Astronomical Society."

He doesn't wait for a response and for once I am rendered quite speechless and can only nod politely. Or at least I think I'm nodding politely—I'm not entire sure at this moment what expression my face is making.

Canals? _Constructed_?

This is a disaster.

The moment Tewksbury and I are alone—or as alone as you can be in a tea house full of chattering young ladies and their beaus—I turn to him with a look of utter incredulity.

"Don't look at me like that," he says, raising his hands. " After all, it's too late to back out now."


	2. II

_“Does a man of sense run after every silly tale of hobgoblins or fairies, and canvass particularly the evidence? I never knew anyone that examined and deliberated about nonsense who did not believe it before the end of his enquiries.”_ – **David Hume, _The Letters of David Hume_**

* * *

With the fine weather it's an ideal day for a stroll in Hyde Park. But even the finest weather isn't going to save Tewkesbury. "Did you know about that Mars nonsense?"

He looks terribly amused. "I knew he was very interested in Mars. Which part of it was nonsense?"

I can't help but roll my eyes. "The canals of course."

"How do you know?"

I dart a glance at Tewkesbury to see if he's serious but he just looks… happy. The sun gleams off the brass button of his jacket and his face too seems aglow, filled with warmth and joviality. Around us, the lanes are busy with ladies beneath their parasols and gentlemen with their walking-sticks tapping the ground in step with their boots. I'm sure none of them are contemplating the nature of the surface of Mars.

"Because," I begin slowly, calling to mind what I've read of recent astronomical discoveries, "the instruments we have at present don't allow for clear images. Much of the progress astronomers have made in recent times has been due to spectrographic analysis rather than direct observation. Seeing lines or canals or whatnot in a blurry image is no different than seeing a cloud in the shape of a rabbit or an old man in the gnarled bark of an oak. It's simply our minds trying to find patterns where there are none."

"So you think it's impossible then?"

"No, I simply think we need to wait for more information before drawing conclusions. If we just assume a thing is possible before there's any evidence for it then we'd all believe in unicorns and pixies."

Tewkesbury tilts his head. "I'll have you know that growing up I was friends with several pixies on our estates. Charming little creatures, though they have a tendency to steal the buttons off my shirt cuffs."

I give him a little shove, smiling in spite of myself. "If you were a changeling from the fae realms it would explain a great deal about you, Viscount Whimsy, Marquess of Nonsenshire."

He offers a little bow. "You've discovered my secret, Enola Holmes. Whatever shall I do with you now?"

His eyes gleam when he looks at me, with merriment and something more, a fondness he has never been able to—or never tried to—disguise. He is so easy to read, an open book in printed block letters. My brother in contrast is a medieval manuscript in cypher.

"I suppose you'll have to put a curse on me. Though with this new case I think perhaps you already have."

That gets a proper laugh out him and the sound is like the peal of the bells that ring out on holidays. "I promise you Freddie's more sensible that he seems. He's a proponent of educational reform. He's just a bit… eccentric." And then with a shrug, "I'm afraid I'm rather fond of brilliant eccentrics."

"I am not eccentric."

"No, you're right. I've met most of the ladies of my acquaintance while jumping off moving trains."

And to that, I must admit, I have no reply at all.

#

The carriage ride to Ealing affords an opportunity to question Lennox in greater detail about his missing notes so I ask him about the night he took the notes. I had to promise Tewksbury _not_ to mention my doubts about the canals. In fact I had to promise him not to discuss the canals at all, in any way shape or form, including prose, verse, and code. Sometimes I suspect that he believes me to be without manners entirely.

"So, Lord Lennox, the night of the opposition…" He looks better rested today, no bags under his eyes and he hasn't nodded off in the carriage. I suppose when he doesn't have the telescope at his disposal he keeps more regular hours.

His forehead creases as he considers the matter. "There isn't much to tell. I was installed at the telescope by half past nine and waited for full dark at which point I began making observations and taking notes until a quarter after three."

"And did anyone else enter the telescope shed during that period?" There's a faint twitch of his jaw. His brows draw in a bit more. "Lord Lennox, you can be assured of my discretion. I'm not attempting to place the blame on anyone at this time, only to understand the events surrounding the disappearance of your notes."

He glances at Tewkesbury. Seated next to him, Tewkesbury offers an encouraging smile and at least this time he refrains from suggesting I'm frightening. "I would not have this information come to my father's attention but my sister sometimes assists me with my astronomical observations. When she's able to sneak out of her room."

"How old is she?"

"Fourteen. The youngest of us. Her mathematical acumen is startling. She's able to calculate orbits and star periods that I found perplexing until I was several years older." He straightens and his frown melts away as he speaks of her. He looks genuinely proud. What must it be like to have an older sibling who recognises your skills and encourages them?

Lennox sighs and shakes his head. "My father doesn't care for her intellectual pursuits any more than mine."

I raise an eyebrow. "Less, I should expect."

A wry laugh escapes him. "Yes, I suppose so. He would be livid if he found out she was staying up to all hours staring at the sky and helping me take measurements on star positions." He shakes his head again, more vigorously this time. "She should have the opportunity to attend university. If she's forced to spend her days on embroidery and floral arrangements it will be a waste of a brilliant mind."

Tewkesbury catches my gaze and I can see by the twinkle in his eye that he is thinking something along the lines of 'What did I tell you?'

"Returning to the night of the Mars opposition, your sister was with you then?"

"She snuck out of her room around eleven, after her governess had gone to bed, and stayed until two. The only time she left was when I spilled tea on my blank papers and she offered to run back to the house and fetch more."

"Did you see anyone else?"

Lord Lennox shakes his head. "No. Everyone else was in bed. The house is little used since my uncle passed. When I'm not there to use the telescope the old groundskeeper and his assistant are the only ones who haunt the place."

"And who knew about your notes? About their contents and where you store them?"

He looks perplexed and finally just shrugs. "Everyone, I suppose. My astronomy work isn't a secret and I simply keep the papers in my desk."

I nod. "Very well then. I shall need to speak to everyone at the house and see what turns up." With any luck, this will all have been a prank and I won't have to hear another word about Martian canals.

#

Sherlock told me once to look for what was there, not what I wanted to be there. The corollary to that is base your theories on the evidence not on your assumptions. It is far too easy to come to a theory based on what you expect, what you assume. And for a detective that can be a fatal mistake.

Mr. Wright, the old groundskeeper, spends most of his interview telling me about Lennox's uncle. His gnarled hands gesticulate wildly as he tells me the hubbub caused when the telescope was first put up and some of the neighbours were convinced he was building a monstrous cannon. "He'd have been so proud of the young master carrying on his studies, he would," he tells me, his bushy eyebrows and overgrown beard giving him the air of a sheepdog surveying his flock.

His clothes look very neat, his boots without dust or mud—not in keeping with a groundskeeper's work. He tells me that he used to manage the upkeep of the grounds and the house himself but now that falls to young Mr. Thomas Jackson, hired on as his assistant and eventual replacement. He doesn't know of any odd happenings related to Lennox's notes, but confirms that local children have, in the past, snuck onto the property to gape at the telescope.

Thomas, who's taken over most of old Mr. Wright's work, has grass stains on his trousers, cobwebs caught in his sandy hair just beneath his cap, and a dark stain on his right cuff. He looks only a few years older than me. His air is skeptical as I question him about his work and about the papers. "A lot of fuss over some scribblings. I'm sure it's some lads who took his papers on a lark."

Short and energetic, Mrs. Hill, the cook, flits about the house like a finch, insisting that I follow her about while I ask my questions. What I gather while accompanying her through the kitchen, into the larder and several linen closets, is that she had gone to visit her family in Putney the weekend of Lennox's Martian discoveries and only heard about the loss of the notes upon her return. She can't imagine anyone stealing Lennox's papers on purpose but suggests that he might have left some of them in the observatory shed. "And we do get the young lads trying to sneak into the shed now and again to go look at the telescope. I think it's become a local tradition."

The governess, Ms. Corbyn, is the pinched and proper sort that reminds me rather painfully of Miss Harrison. She goes on at length about how Lennox is an "unfortunate influence on the malleable young mind of Miss Lennox" who is, apparently deeply challenged in the area embroidery and prone to poor posture from too much reading. When I ask if Miss Lennox ever assists her brother with his astronomical observations Ms. Corbyn sniffs and looks rather as if I've asked if she enjoys mudlarking. "Absolutely not. What a ghastly thought! Her bedtime is at ten o'clock, on the hour, not a moment later. I make certain she is in her quarters and has extinguished the lights before I allow myself to rest for the night."

When I question her about her employer's views on Lennox's interests she reiterates that he does not support them but allows him to carry on in Easling anyway. As for the notes, "Good riddance," she says. "The children who stole them have done my master a great favour. Perhaps Master Lennox will finally settle himself and take to a serious occupation."

I've conducted interviews with everyone except Miss Lennox when Tewkesbury comes to fetch me for lunch. "Freddie insisted you join us," he says, "and I insisted on going to find you myself."

"Is that so?" I say dubiously.

"I wanted to make sure you hadn't disguised yourself as one of the servants and snuck off to track down the culprit on an empty stomach."

I raise an eyebrow and give him a most earnest look. "I promise you I won't sneak off until I am well fed. Will that do?"

"For now." He offers me his arm and I take it as I have so many times before. These past years Tewkesbury has become the one true constant in my existence, the cornerstone on which I've constructed a new life for myself. Ridiculous though he may be at times, he is the one person I need never doubt.

"So have you solved the case yet?" he asks as he leads me out of the sitting room where I've been conducting my interviews. The house is modest compared to the grand estates, only a cottage by Tewkesbury's estimation, I'm sure. But it has enough rooms to rival Ferndell.

I shake my head. "I'm still gathering all the facts. It's too early to draw any conclusions."

Lennox hops to his feet the moment we appear in the dining room doorway. "Miss Holmes, please allow me to present my youngest sister Augusta Lennox."

I turn my attention to the girl seated next to Lennox. "I'm very glad to meet you," I say.

Willowy and pale, Augusta has the same piercing blue eyes as her brother. They dart to him for a moment before she nods at me and replies with, "A pleasure, Miss Holmes."

Once we're seated around the table, Mrs. Hill appears with a platter of cold beef, slices of pale, crusty bread, neatly stacked, and a platter of green beans drizzled in vinaigrette. She fills our cups with tea as we butter our bread and slather the meat with mustard.

"Are you really a detective?" Augusta asks without preamble.

Her eyes are wide and her brow just slightly furrowed in disbelief. I encounter doubt with regularity. In fact I often have to style myself as an assistant for a male detective of my own invention simply to pursue my inquiries. But I have succeeded in spite of doubts and incredulity. Time and time again I have given proof of my abilities, and I shall do so once more. "Yes, I am. I've been working as a private detective in London for over three years now."

"What sorts of things do you investigate?"

"My specialty is finding missing people. That's how I met Tewksbury."

She tilts her head. "Oh you found someone for him?"

My lips curl into a smile. "No, I found _him_. He was missing once upon a time."

Tewkesbury harrumphs. "I was _not_ missing. I was in hiding."

"Either way, I did find you."

"It caused quite a stir," Lennox adds, as he heaps horseradish onto his slice of beef. "You were too young to remember, Augusta, but this fellow had his face all over the papers for weeks. The missing marquess!"

Tewkesbury shakes his head and looks very serious. "It wasn't a good likeness at all."

Lennox, points his fork at Tewkesbury. "Quite the stir," he says again, shaking his fork. "And it was all very hush hush afterwards. One day he was missing, the next day we heard he'd been found and was being inducted into the House of Lords. Just like that!"

"What happened?" Augusta asks, eyes wide.

I shake my head. "I'm afraid I can't discuss the details of a past case." His family managed to keep the details out of the paper so most never heard of how Tewkesbury's own grandmother had tried to kill him. And I have kept his family's secret all this time. I would not see the story hawked on street corner by paperboys, turned into lurid entertainment for strangers who can't imagine what an ordeal that was for him, to know that his own blood murdered his father and tried to murder him as well. Sometimes I wonder how he can be as cheerful and kind as he is when he's seen the darkness that can lurk in the human spirit, even in those who ought to love us best. How can he trust, how can he love when he has so much reason to doubt? And yet when I dart a glance in his direction his expression is grateful, a tiny smile on his lips and his eyes bright, his brow smooth.

"Miss Lennox," I say, determined to turn this discussion in the direction it needs to go, "your brother tells me you've a great interest in astronomy."

She brightens immediately. "In mathematics more generally but astronomy affords me opportunities to perform complex computations."

"She has quite the skill for it," Lennox says. "Her governess certainly can't keep up and even I barely can!" He looks so proud, so happy to unfurl her talents before us like a fine piece of embroidery work. But instead of needlework it's mathematical acumen that he's boasting about.

I only wish Sherlock were as free with his praise as Lennox seems to be. In that moment, I'm reminded of a drizzly afternoon when I'd ventured to 221B Baker Street. After the case of the missing marquess it had taken a long time for me to be certain that Sherlock's attempts to draw me out were not intended to result in my return to Miss Harrison's or to some godforsaken reformatory. But he made no such attempt and did not interfere with my establishing myself as a detective in my own right so by and by I felt safe enough to make regular visits to Baker Street.

During that particular visit I'd arrived to find a gentleman already there, sipping tea that was still steaming. Sherlock had introduced him as Inspector Baynes of the Surrey Constabulary.

"Allow me to introduce my sister Enola," Sherlock had said. "She takes a keen interest in matters of deductive reasoning herself."

"Unusual for a young lady," Baynes observed.

"Yes," Sherlock agreed simply. He did not take the opportunity to commend my skills or past successes. He did not look at me with filial pride and affection. He remained his usual impassive self.

"I'm afraid I've always been moderately unusual," I offered and then sipped my tea.

Giving myself a shake, I draw my thoughts away from Baker Street and my puzzling brother and return my attention to the case at hand. "Several people have mentioned local children who've shown an interest in the telescope. Have you encountered any of them during your stay here?"

Augusta shakes her head. "No, Ms. Corbyn wouldn't think it proper."

"Very well. Then can you tell me about the night of the Mars opposition?"

Her brow furrows and she raises her teacup to her lips before answering. "Ms. Corbyn sent me to bed at ten as usual. I sat up until eleven when I was sure she'd be asleep and then I left my room to join Freddie at the telescope. I think I stayed until just before two."

"And did you see anyone besides your brother during that period?"

"I—Well that is…" She fidgets with her napkin for several seconds, her eyes on the table. When she looks up her eyes dart from me to her brother. "Freddie knocked over his cup of tea—around midnight I think—and it got all over the blank sheets. So I offered to run in and get more so he wouldn't miss anything."

"Go on," I say gently.

"I got more paper and was just coming out of the study when—" She glances at Lennox and ducks her head. "I collided with Thomas. And papers went flying everywhere and he was quite upset."

Lennox tilts his head and peers at her like a barn owl. "He was upset? Why didn't you tell me? I would've sorted him out."

Augusta shakes her head. "I didn't want you to get in trouble with father for letting me stay up."

I offer a quiet smile. "I understand, Miss Lennox. Now, what did Thomas do precisely?"

"Well he swore quite a bit and started snatching up paper—he'd been carrying some of his own and they'd gotten mixed up with the blank ones and I apologised but then he snarled at me about whether my governess knew I was still up and he said he would make sure he had a word with her in the morning."

"And did he?"

"No," Augusta says with utter certainty. "Ms. Corbyn would have been furious but instead she exhibited only her usual degree of crossness." Lennox chokes back a snort of laughter and I have to exert considerable willpower not to grin. I am eternally thankful that I was never subjected to a governess. My brief stay at Miss Harrison's finishing school was more than enough.

"Did you get a look at the papers he'd dropped?"

"A glimpse," she said with a shrug. "I thought it was a letter."

"And afterwards?"

"He stormed off and I brought the papers back to Freddie. I was afraid that things would be bad in the morning but then nothing happened and I supposed Thomas had decided not to make a fuss after all."

I sip my tea while considering this new information. Midnight seems like an odd hour for letter writing. I thank Augusta for her patience and we spend the rest of the meal in idle chatter. As soon as it's polite I excuse myself saying there are a few things I need to look into, but I only get two steps out of the room before Tewkesbury catches my elbow.

"Have you caught the scent already?" he asks with a grin.

"Just something I need to look into. If you really want to do me a service though do you think you could borrow a pair of trousers for me from your friend?" He raises an eyebrow and I give him my best conspiratorial grin. "I did promise I'd wait till I was fed before sneaking off."


	3. III

_Our duty is to believe that for which we have sufficient evidence, and to suspend our judgment when we have not._ – **John Lubbock, _The Use Of Life_**

* * *

The new shed, built to replace the one converted to house the telescope, rests in the corner of the home's back lot and is roughly twice the length of my room in London. Its red bricks are mossy at the corners and a tendril of ivy ascends one side, but the building appears in good repair, the door well oiled when I ease it open.

The inside is completely dark and as I pause to light my lamp Tewkesbury peers in. "Isn't this cozy."

"Stay out there," I hiss. "You'll ruin your clothes if you go mucking about in here." That's precisely why I asked him to procure a change of outfit for me. An old shirt and a pair of trousers are much better suited to poking around a dusty shed than a flouncy afternoon dress.

"It's not my clothes I'm concerned about."

I glance over my shoulder at him. "Really? As I recall you were once greatly concerned about a lost button after leaping off a moving train."

He huffs. "I've since revised my priorities."

This makes me smile, in spite of myself, but luckily in the dark he won't be able to tell the difference. He is perhaps not as ridiculous as he was the first day we me, but that's not to say that he isn't ridiculous at all. Certainly trying to follow me into a mess of what appears to be groundskeeping equipment and cobwebby astronomy tools—disassembled telescopes, cracked glass lenses—is proof enough of that. "If you really want to help, go check if there are any tracks along the outside of the building."

He finally assents and I raise my lantern and press forward into the darkened shed. A quick inspection of the floor reveals a cluster of muddy bootprints among shears, shovels, hoes, and other tools. Yet I also note a definite tract through the dust, heading towards the far end of the shed. Picking my way through the useful implements and stacks of broken items Lennox's uncle stored here, I take care not to disturb anything. At the very back of the shed I find what appears to be a makeshift writing desk comprised of a wooden plank atop several stacks of bricks. The plank is stained with dark blotches. Ink, I assume—and confirm a moment later as I find a jar of ink and a collection of pens, the nibs still black with ink, sitting on a shelf within easy each reach of the desk.

Blank paper is stacked on one corner of the desk but my eye rests on the scattered sheets taking up the middle of the writing space. I set down my lantern and lean closer to inspect them. Lines of proverbs scrawled in what at first glance appear to be different hands. But no… the F has the same flourish in several and there's a familiar curve to the S even though the author has clearly attempted to disguise it.

Practice. These are sheets of someone practicing writing in another's hand.

There isn't anything else on the desk so instead I take up my light again and cast about for more clues. There must be something else here. Turning my attention to the floor once more I can see a path cut through the dust leading to the furthest corner where several broken chairs have been piled up. I peer at them for a minute notice nothing of interest. I inspect the floor once more and then run my hand along the surface of the wall first on one side then the other until I feel it—a catch in one of the bricks. I give it a tug and it shifts. Gripping it firmly, I wiggle the brick loose and find a hollow behind it. In it I find a few bills, a sheaf of papers, and a revolver.

The revolver resembles the six-shot Webley model occasionally used by Scotland Yard. I've seen them a few times—though not always in the hands of police. Its presence here is unsettling to say the least. But the papers may shed more light on why a revolver should be here.

I carefully remove the papers, holding my lamp high to give me enough light to read the tightly-packed handwritten lines.

_**I JANE ELIZABETH WILCOX, spinster, formerly residing on Buckland Street, and now of Ferntower Road, proceed to make this my last will and testament, and as follows:** _

For a minute I stare at the document and then, frowning I turn to the next sheet. It, too, appears to be a will, that of a certain William Smith of Devonford Street. And a third: James Gordon Hammond of Trehern Road. My eyes hover over the letters, the familiar flourish of the F and S that I had noticed on the practice sheets earlier. Three wills written by the same hand, trying to look like different hands.

Below that I find a sheet with only a few lines of writing on one side, but the other is what I can only describe as a circle covered in jagged lines with hastily scrawled notes along the edges. These notations of hour, location, atmospheric conditions and further notes about hues and line qualities are truly written by a different hand. Without a doubt these are Lennox's prized notes on the alleged Mars canals.

I'm still staring at the notes when the shed door creaks open. "Did you find anything?" I call over my shoulder.

But for a detective, an assumption can prove fatal and, when I hear the voice, I realize that I have just made one very incorrect one.

"What are you doing here?"

I don't bother to answer Thomas before snatching the revolver from its cubbyhole. His footsteps clatter on the stone floor as my fingers fumble with the release lever for the barrel. The weapon feels heavy, the metal leeching the heat from my fingers so that they seem like leaden twigs attached to my palms.

"What are you playing at?"

My heart thuds against my ribs. He's too close and I've been too careless.

With a click, the catch on the revolver loosens and I snap it back to reveal the barrel, loaded with six monstrous bullets. I turn it upside down trying to loose the bullets from their crannies and feel metal tumbling into my pocket—just as Thomas reaches me.

"Get away from there!" he shouts, snagging my sleeve to twist me around. The revolver flies from my hand and slides across he stone floor. I whip my arm up and around to free myself, my body moving on instinct thanks to my mother's and Edith's training. It leaves him stumbling and I sidestep, putting distance between us. There's no space to move here among the tools and discarded furniture and if we grapple he'll have the advantage of strength. I need to be in the open where I can more easily use my training and his momentum against him.

Naturally it's at this most inauspicious moment that the door swings open yet again and Tewkesbury appears in the doorway. "Enola," he calls out. "I checked but it looks like—"

Thomas dives for the revolver.

"Tewksbury, stay back!" My fingers dart into my pockets searching for those cylinders of metal and gunpowder, trying to confirm if I successfully removed all six from the chamber. Two. Three. Lint.

Even in the dim light Thomas's face looks washed out, pale and wide-eyed like an injured beast, one that's been cornered. His arm shakes as he holds up the revolver, barrel pointed in my direction. "Give me those papers." His voice trembles.

Tewkesbury's voice isn't much steadier. "What's going on here?"

"Keep away!" Thomas shouts. "I'll shoot! I'll do it I will!"

Thomas's eyes dart between me and Tewkesbury.

"It's all right, Tewkesbury." I keep my voice calm, though his presence has added another variable to this unpleasant equation. I can defend myself but Tewkesbury cannot. "Just do as he says."

"The papers," Thomas growls.

I had stuffed them into my other pocket when I heard him coming and now I slowly grasp the edges of the wadded up papers and draw them out of my pocket. My other hand is still fingering the lumps of metal, straining to reach the bottom of the pocket in the too-large clothes. Three. Six? No, five. Or…

"Put them in the nook," Thomas says and the barrel waves towards the hole in the wall "And then back yourself up nice and slow like."

With slow movements I obey, careful not to startle him. "Forgery is a serious crime, Mr. Jackson, but if you turn in your accomplices the authorities are more likely to be lenient." I place the papers and step away.

"My _accomplices_? Employers more like." He snorts. "You don't understand their sort. If I go gabbing to some inspector that'll be it for my family, it will."

"Then why get involved with them at all?"

He shakes his head. There's a sheen of sweat glistening on his brow. His hand is shaking more than ever. "I had debts."

"Horse racing?" I venture. It was the source of a great many debts for both workers and gentlemen. Thomas says nothing but the twitch of his lip gives him away.

"It was supposed to be easy," he says, his voice raspy. "They like my penmanship. Just a bit of work writing things out, they said. And then that girl had to go and make a mess of everything, sneaking around at night like she was. And now you, poking you nose about where it don't belong." My fingers dig into my pocket as he speaks, his knuckles white around the revolver's grip. Three. Four. He steadies the weapon and points it squarely at me. "I should just—"

"No!" Tewkesbury's shout startles Thomas, as if he'd forgotten Tewkesbury was there at all. He looks almost as fraught as Thomas. "Don't hurt her."

Digging deep into my pocket while Thomas is distracted I finger the bullets. Three. Five. My fingers strain for the narrow corner of the pocket, brushing something wedged there. Six.

"It's all right, Tewkesbury, he's not going to hurt me," I assure him with a confidence I had not felt mere moments earlier.

"You! Shut it!" Thomas snaps. "I need to think. I need to…" He licks his lips, hand trembling, face pale.

"I have some money," Tewkesbury says, producing a handful of bills from his jacket pocket. "And…" He searches his pockets and my heart gives an unpleasant thud when he pulls out his father's pocket watch. "And this. It's valuable. Gold. Take it. Just don't harm her."

I have to bite my lip to keep myself from speaking his name. I never asked for evidence of his feelings, but he offers it time and again unbidden.

Thomas comes to a decision. He snatches the papers and then bolts towards the door—right towards Tewkesbury. As he barrels through the exit, he shoves Tewkesbury aside, sending him sprawling backwards into a pile of gardening tools with a cry of pain or dismay—I can't tell which and the uncertainty sends a spark of anger flashing through me.

Thomas stumbles ahead even as I vault over toppled tables and broken chairs in pursuit. My momentum carries me forward like a great tide and I sweep over him, tackling him on the lawn. He goes down in a heap but recovers enough to flip around, revolver still in hand. Eyes wild, he pulls the trigger.

It clicks.

He stares at it uncomprehendingly.

I use his distraction to close in and strike him in the temple. He goes limp, conscious, but clearly dazed and I lock his arms behind him in a grappling hold my mother taught me and which has served me well on a few occasions.

My breath comes in heaves but over the pounding pulse in my ears I finally hear the voice, the racing footfalls. "What's all this?" Mr. Wright asks.

"Do you have a rope? To tie him up?" Mr. Wright stares, perhaps shocked by my appearance in trousers or by the fact that I've grappled his assistant. "He attacked us."

"A—a misunderstanding certainly," he stammers.

"The revolver is just over there," I snap.

Mr. Wright's eyes go wide and then, without a word, he heads to the shed and returns with rope. Tewkesbury, his jacket smudged with dirt lags behind him.

I bind Thomas's hands and then get to my feet. "Please lock him up somewhere and send for Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. Give him my name."

"Yes, Miss," Mr. Wright croaks, pale and worried, and escorts Thomas to the house. Thomas is still dazed and the fight seems to have gone out of him.

When I turn and see Tewkesbury, my relief turns to concern when I realize he's limping.

"Enola! You're all right!" He slumps with obvious relief. "Thank God."

I shake my head. "I wasn't in any real danger."

"Unless you're wearing some armour that you pinched from my family's estate I don't believe you're actually bulletproof."

"I am not," I concede. "But you're assuming the revolver had any bullets." And with that I jam my hand into my pocket and produce a handful of brassy bullets.

He laughs but he still looks pale. "You gave me quite a scare," he says quietly.

"Never mind that. You're hurt." I close the distance between us and put his arm around my shoulders, taking his weight.

"My ankle," he replies, cheeks flushing. "Have I earned an explanation at least? What was all that about?"

I lead him towards the house, one hobbling step at a time. "Will forging. The Bank of England has dormant accounts. Thomas's employers will have gotten a list of them and planned to claim some of the banked sums using forged wills, forged death certificates, and grants of probate. Thomas was preparing the materials at a makeshift desk at the back of the shed. When he collided with Augusta the night of the Mars opposition she picked up some of his papers by mistake and Lord Lennox used them for notes without realizing there was writing on the other side."

"So Thomas realized some of his papers were missing and snitched Freddie's notes to cover his tracks."

"Yes, that sums it up."

"But how did you know to check the shed?"

I shrug. "His run-in with Augusta struck me as odd and when I met him he had ink stains on his sleeve. I wondered what he was spending so much time writing about. No one would think much of his going in and out of there so if he did have something to hide it would the logical place."

"Well done, Detective Holmes."

I want to say something about the pocket watch, how he'd offered it to Thomas in exchange for my safety. The watch was his father's and he loves it and he offered it up. For me. But his jaunty grin morphs into a wince as he bumps his ankle against the first step into the house and I decide now is not the time. But it weighs on me all the rest of the day.


	4. IV

_For where is the man that has incontestable evidence of the truth of all that he holds, or of the falsehood of all he condemns; or can say that he has examined to the bottom all his own, or other men's opinions? The necessity of believing without knowledge, nay often upon very slight grounds, in this fleeting state of action and blindness we are in, should make us more busy and careful to inform ourselves than constrain others._ – **John Locke, _An Essay Concerning Human Understanding_**

* * *

The doctor Lord Lennox sends for seems competent and prescribes cold compresses and various poultices for Tewkesbury's ankle, but mainly he advises a few days of bedrest. In order to save Tewkesbury the jostling carriage ride back home, Lennox invites him to stay over at the cottage—and me as well, as a small token of his thanks for recovering his papers and uncovering Thomas's wrongdoings.

On the third day of Tewkesbury's convalescence I find him stretched out on the drawing room divan where he's spent most of his time of late. Mrs. Hill has made a proper fuss over him and he's well stocked with hot tea and fresh ginger biscuits as he reads the day's paper.

I draw up a padded stool so I can sit next to him. "How are you today?"

"Much better. I should be able to head back to London tomorrow. Are you sure you don't need to go back? You don't have a case waiting on you?"

I give him a properly stern look. "Of course not. I'm afraid if I leave you here with Lord Lennox he'll have you believing that Mars is populated by a colony of gnomes and that the moon is made of cheese."

He starts up. "You mean it's not?"

I slap his shoulder. But we're alone for a few moments and I steel myself to speak of what's been on my mind these past days. "The other day, when Thomas threatened us…"

"What about it?"

"You offered him your father's watch."

He looks puzzled. "Of course I did. He was pointing a revolver at you."

"But you love that watch. It's your keepsake of your father."

When he looks at me, there's an openness to his features, as if he wishes to conceal nothing, to have me read every thought, every flicker of emotion. "Enola," he says softly, "you mean more to me than that watch."

As always, he gives evidence of his feelings, and I know I have never offered such clear and unambiguous proof of my own. I straighten and square my shoulders. "I'm afraid I don't have any keepsakes of comparable value, but I wish to be clear on this point: that if your life were in danger I would trade any such item for your safety as well." My only keepsake is Dash and I think it unfair to compare my childhood pet pinecone with something Tewksbury inherited after his father was murdered.

His lips quirk and his eyes are bright with obvious amusement—which was not quite the effect I was hoping to engender. "What about that pinecone of yours?"

"Who would want it? And how do you even remember that? I only mentioned it to you once—years ago!"

He grins at me. "I have a prodigious memory—when I choose to use it."

"And this is what you choose to use it on?" I retort, rolling my eyes. This is the thanks I get for my attempt at frankness.

"I think you're a very fine thing to use it on. But _you_ haven't answered the question."  


I throw up my hands in utter exasperation. "What question?"

He raises one eyebrow and gives me a mock-serious look that's only enhanced by the fact that he's propped up on a divan under a knitted blanket like a lady who's just been administered smelling salts. "Would you give up your precious pinecone for me?"

"Of course I would, you nincompoop. But I'd much rather arrange things so that neither of us has to give up anything."

"That sounds very good to me." His eyes fix on me with such warmth. "And, Enola… I'll be here until you have arranged things."

I can't meet his eyes. "You will?"

"Yes."

"Well…. Good. That's good." And I reach out and give his hand a squeeze because, while I still can't bring myself to look at him, his words, and the meaning behind them fills me at once with giddiness and profound calm. To know that no matter where my mother may wander, or what Sherlock may make of me, I have a future waiting for me where I will not be alone.

I look up when he raises my fingers to his lips. And I smile. Once we seemed to be the two no one wanted, but together we made a path forward and shall continue to do so. And I am so very glad.

The bubbly happiness that sparks through my veins is dulled somewhat when I hear a clatter of footfalls close by. He drops my hand and I edge my seat away a little. A moment later Mrs. Hill, violently red in the face and obviously flustered, appears before us. "There's a visitor—that is your—Oh…" She gives herself a shake. "Mister Sherlock Holmes is here to see you, Miss."

I have to bite my tongue to prevent myself from blurting something nonsensical such as "Are you sure?". And then there he is, brow furrowed, jacket slightly crumpled, hair tousled. It is, I believe, the first time in three and a half years I've ever seen him look less than pristine.

"Enola, are you well?" he asks without preamble. He seems alarmed, though I have only ever seen him calm, dishevelled, though I have only ever seen him composed. Whatever could be the matter?

"I'm fine," I say rising to my feet. "Please, sit down. And tell me what's happened."

"Clearly a misunderstanding is what's happened," he replies, obviously displeased.

Mrs. Hill, who's been staring at him as if at the second coming, now scurries off, murmuring something about fetching more tea.

He straightens his jacket and seats himself in the nearest armchair. "When I returned home this morning Mrs. Hudson said Inspector Lestrade had been by to speak with me and explained that you'd been investigating a ring of forgers and that you'd been injured."

I shake my head. "No, she must have misunderstood the inspector. I'm quite well. It's Tewkesbury who was hurt—just his ankle, though, nothing serious."

Sherlock huffs even as his body eases back into the armchair. "In future I shall have to make certain Lestrade leaves his messages in writing."

"I'm sorry to have worried you. I was never in any real danger, I promise you." A smile curls my lips and I do my best to restrain it so I don't end up grinning like a silly schoolgirl. But in truth his obvious worry—rushing here as soon as he got the message, that frantic air when he'd arrived—delights me. His reserve has sometimes suggested indifference. But I was wrong to draw that conclusion. So clearly wrong, and the misunderstanding that sent him here has given me a gift—the very evidence I was searching for.

"I'm glad to hear it."

"Biscuit?" Tewkesbury offers, holding up one of the ginger confections.

"No thank you," Sherlock replies dryly. And then, glancing between the two of us, asks, "And what did happen precisely?"

Tewkesbury shrugs. "The fellow shoved me out of the way when he was trying to make his escape and I tripped over a rake. It was all very undignified."

His eyebrows rise with mild surprise and amusement. "You, Lord Tewkesbury, are very fortunate Enola keeps you out of any real trouble."

Tewkesbury bobs his head in agreement. "I consider myself the most fortunate fellow in all of England."

Tewkesbury looks at me and smiles while a tiny huff of laughter escapes Sherlock.

"You'll stay for tea, won't you?" I say. "I'll tell you the story from start to finish."

"As long as your host won't object then yes, I can stay for a while."

"Wonderful! Just please if Lord Lennox joins us don't mention Mars. Or canals—of any sort."

His eyebrows rise just slightly and then with perfect aplomb he replies, "No, of course not."

He settles himself and as I look between them I am filled with fizzy happiness. Here in this room I have with me two of the people I love most in all the world. I have all the evidence I need that the sentiment is mutual and I am not alone.

**The End**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun things I learned while working on this fic:
> 
> The idea that Mars had a system of canals constructed by an extinct alien race was a theory largely espoused by American astronomer Percival Lowell in the early 1890s and into the first decade of the 20th century. After that improvements in technology made it clear that the "canals" were optical illusions, which we now know to be created by dust storms.
> 
> Will forging was a real thing, though more often in the mid-18th century when regulations surrounding wills were more lax.
> 
> The movie takes place in 1884 when the when the Third Reform Bill was passed. Meanwhile, the Ritz Hotel was built in 1906, so Enola's little quip about it in the movie appears to be an anachronism.


End file.
